~~ LIACH POV ~~
I expect to be summoned.
After all, it's not every day you beat a mafia prince's favorite slut into the ground in front of his entire security wing.
What I don't expect is the silence.
No reprimand.
No warning.
Just... stillness.
Even Marek doesn't mention it, and he always has something to say.
That tells me one thing, Sinveer saw it.
And he let it happen.
I'm at my desk the next morning reviewing shipment manifests when the call comes through the intercom.
"Mr. De Luna wants to see you."
The voice is clipped. Controlled.
I smooth my skirt, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and walk into the lion's den.
Sinveer stands by the window, back turned, staring out over the city like he owns it. Maybe he does. Maybe that's the problem.
He doesn't turn as I step in.
"Close the door."
I do.
The silence stretches. I wait.
Finally, he speaks.
"Marla has a fractured wrist, three bruised ribs, and a concussion."
My voice is level. "She walked in. She talked. I responded."
He place his palms on his face.
He turns now, slowly, like a king deciding whether to kill or crown his subject.
"And what kind of response was that, Liach? Military-grade assault?"
"She got in my face. I put her back in her place."
He watches me. His face unreadable. Then—he smiles.
Not warm. Not kind.
But amused.
"You really don't give a fuck, do you?"
"No, sir. I never have."
He chuckled.
Later that day, I hear it happen.
The conversation I wasn't supposed to hear.
Marek and Sinveer are talking in his office. I'm outside, quiet, working—listening.
"The Kastro engagement gala is in four days," Marek says. "If you show up alone again, it'll look weak. Or worse—like you're unbalanced."
"I'm not bringing Marla."
"Didn't ask you to. I said bring someone. Someone decent."
"Who can I bring? I don't have any lady to take along."
A pause.
Then, "What about the assistant?"
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
"She's polished. Knows how to act. Smart enough to stay quiet."
"Liach?" Sinveer says.
He sounds... surprised.
"She's already on the payroll," Marek continues. "And you don't have a real girlfriend. No one.
serious. She's the best option."
"What about a paid actress instead."
"No" frustration in his tone. " Then what next look for your dick to suck out your cum."
Another pause.
Then Sinveer says something I won't forget.
"She's just a placeholder."
The next morning, he tells me like it's nothing.
"We have a function, Friday. You'll be coming with me."
I keep my face blank.
"Yes, sir."
"It's black tie. You'll be expected to behave accordingly."
I nod.
Anything else?
He hesitates.
"Some may assume we're involved. Let them."
My teeth clench behind my polite smile.
"Understood."
He doesn't look at me after that.
Just turns away like I'm already in costume.
I spend the next three days preparing.
Not for them. For me.
I have no intention of being just a stand-in.
If I'm going to wear the label, I'll make it unforgettable.
I commission a gown—blood red, silk, slit to the thigh, with a neckline that borders on indecency. My hair is done sleek and sharp. Makeup like war paint.
I look like sin incarnate.
I look like a woman who doesn't belong on anyone's arm.
But could ruin a man for pretending she does.
The night of the gala, a sleek black car picks me up.
Sinveer's already inside, dressed in black tailored perfection, a watch worth more than most lives on his wrist.
His eyes trail down my body when I step in.
But he says nothing.
He doesn't have to.
The silence is thick with it.
We ride to the venue in wordless tension.
When we arrive, cameras flash, guards step aside, and all eyes turn toward us.
He offers me his arm.
I take it.
Let the performance begin.
The Kastro estate is grand. Marble floors, chandeliers, too much gold.
Sinveer is greeted like royalty. The heads of four families are here, each with their heirs and trophy women.
And now, I'm one of them.
A trophy.
A fake.
A placeholder what an insult.
"Who's this?" one of the underbosses asks as we're introduced.
Sinveer answers before I can.
"My assistant."
Pause.
"And date."
I smile. Tilt my head. Offer my hand like a queen.
"Liach. It's a pleasure."
I feel his fingers on my waist seconds later. Not too tight. Not soft. Possessive.
The show must go on.
For the next two hours, I drink champagne I don't taste, laugh at jokes I could dismantle, and let Sinveer touch me like I'm his.
His fingers graze my back when he leads me through crowds.
His hand stays low on my waist, thumb brushing the curve of my hip.
And every time, I feel that heat crawl under my skin.
I'm not supposed to react.
I'm not supposed to want this.
But I do.
Not because it's Sinveer.
But because it's power.
Control.
A dance I can lead without him ever realizing.
"Careful," I murmur when we step into a quieter corner of the hall.
He raises an eyebrow. "Of what?"
"Touch me too long and I might start thinking you mean it."
His smile is slow, dangerous.
"Touch me too long and I might forget I don't."
I don't let that rattle me.
Instead, I lean in close—close enough that only he can hear.
"I'm not Marla."
"I noticed."
"Good. Because I'd hate for you to mistake me for someone disposable."
Our eyes lock.
He doesn't look away.
Neither do I.
Something pulses between us.
Unspoken.
Unfinished.
Then someone calls his name, and the moment dies.
He pulls back.
"Stay close," he says, voice lower now. "Some of these men are animals."
I watch him walk away.
And I smile.
Because so am I.
Hours later, we leave the gala.
No words on the ride home.
Just silence.
And heat.
And that tension that sits right below the skin, waiting to snap.
At the door of my building, he finally speaks.
"You played the part."
"I'm an excellent actress."
He nods once.
"Goodnight, Liach."
I look at him.
And for a second, I almost say something cruel. Something cutting. Something that would remind him that I heard every word from that office.
But I don't.
I let it simmer.
Let him think I'm calm.
Because the real revenge will come later.
When I'm no longer pretending.
And he's no longer in control.